Friday, 23 August 2013

Rousing Whispers

“Malachi”

The name whispered on the breeze, sounding near and far all
at once. Close to my ear it almost resonated within me, muffled yet each
syllable caressed me inside. I heard a soft groan roll off my own parched lips.
Somewhere in the distance beat the sound of drums. A rhythmic pulse yet so
faint seemed more than a ticking of a clock than what it really was.

“Oracle”

And again the voice spoke, wavering from afar like a
lingering echo. Its lilt seemed assured, assertive even in its resonating hush,
not spoken in question but more in statement. It still had the power to both
stir my senses and yet simultaneously chill me to my very bones in wonder of
what it pre-empted. My lips twitched, head rolling to lift from the horizontal, unsure whether in the depths of a time unclear I was conscious or not. Such was
not a feeling alien to me yet even after all this time I never felt what one
might call comfortable with it.

The room lurched. Even without physical sight of the walls
that surrounded me I felt the sensation of swaying like a ship upon the rolling
waves bringing with it a subtle lapping of nausea. Despite the darkness I had
roused within my eyes felt the usual aching behind ruffled blindfold. Reaching
for its tell tail sticky fabric I carefully rebound the knot tight beneath my
hair before touching together fingers and thumb, smearing blood between my
fingertips and knowing its source lay warm against my cheeks. Such again I was
used to.

“Malachi”

The voice seduced, final uttering accompanied by an almost
playful chuckle, sweeping the still of the room before only the sound of my own
slightly rasping breaths could be heard breaking the silence. Was as if even my
heart had ceased to beat just to savour the sound of coveted feminine call.

Sitting upright now I let one hand down to explore where I
had lain, rumpled sheets indicated a bed, my bed, digits leaving a reddened
stain in arching curve. As further I sought warm softness met cool glass,
fingers tracing shape of a bottle and then another beyond both chiming high in
pitch as struck knuckle against each in turn. Intoxication rather than sleep
had stolen me away as usual for never truly did I slumber, potent vapour still
laced in the air and expelled with the deep sigh accompanying long, slow exhale
of breath. Demons cannot find sleep as mortals do, only brief respite and escape
within unseen cocoons of their own making.

Around me the darkness shifted, merging shadows parted and
entwined in new formations near hypnotic in my haziness. Slithering about me they
passed as I pulled myself to stand, rolling shoulders until heard satisfactory
crack. Wooden floorboards creaked and whined as half dozen slow footsteps took
me to my waiting chair. As I sunk down into worn fabric and loosened springs I
heard my own voice mutter gruffly as with index finger and thumb I smoothed
outwards against my blindfold then massaged at groggy temples. “Floods and
fates, ghosts and graveyards…enough for one night, will you grant me no rest?”
I sighed, brow raised in question to the empty room though I knew they heard me
in some way, they always did. I learned by now I was never truly alone.

“Nice touch though…a new voice, playing games with me now
hmm?” I chuckled as if mildly amused by childish antics. “Or perhaps not” my
head bowed as more serious demeanor settled upon my features. The distant
strumming had returned; gentle vibration felt against the soles of my boots as
they rest upon the ground, one leg outstretched the other bent at the knee. Somewhere,
perhaps in the room below I imagined briefly some poor soul drifting away on
some narcotic high to the pounding soundtrack of drum and bass. Everyone had
their own ways to escape.

“Why her voice?” I
asked the room thoughtfully, fingertip tapping in time against my chin. “Why now?” I sighed leaning back and
closing eyes behind blindfold, the aching as ever persistent yet bearable for
now. I had two empty bottles to thank for that. Frustratingly I neither heard
nor perceived an answer. Typical, I thought bitterly though without the inclination
to rage about it. I had neither the energy nor the will to break the near quiet
I preferred to seek seclusion within.

I pondered for a long time. Minutes passed, perhaps hours
yet I could not tell nor wished to know, instead my mind drifted foggily
through all that had plagued my waking dreams trying to find something new
amidst much repetition yet for now all I kept coming back to was the rousing
voice, not a voice unfamiliar to me yet one not heard in such context before.
Her voice.

“Afira?” I
chanced, narrowing my eyes in distain at the obvious hope I heard laced in my
tone. I grit my teeth “Fool” I spat
in whisper, shaking my head and balling my fingers into a fist against arm of
the chair. Stirrings of ugly emotions awoke and churned in my stomach, bubbling
away like poison of nasty concoction. Guilt for all its strange cleansing
elicitation that did often spurn us to seek balance could often felt like the
worst of all sins when it fueled ones brooding. For a moment I thought I heard
hint of that alluring chuckle, its echo caught in the still air yet I knew it
was not there, more just a reminiscence I begrudged to let go.

About me my own aura crackled like stirring thunder ready
for a coming storm, an ominous swirl of dark shadow and glinting flecks of
crimson that wove all together like a cloak about my form. Slipped away were my
desires for reflection and more tranquil rest. Instead I felt the need to sate
my stirring appetite and find a new escape from grim realities and haunting
past. Rising from my seat I drew up my hood and felt way to the door, slipping
into the shadows of the hallway and tracing the peeling papered walls to the
stairs as the repetitive pulse of drums grew louder, drowning out the
hesitation that might normally have held me back. No holding back today.

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About the Author

Freelance writer, event organiser, roleplayer, amateur photographer, wannabe domestic goddess, wife and mummy! I am the author of The Malachi Chronicles, a blog-journey that follows the life of one of my most prized literary creations.

Though living in the 'real world' for thirty three years now I have always written creatively in some capacity. In whatever manifestation writing is for me an escape, a comfort and a stimulant all at once.

Occasionally I will struggle to find my muse, often when my mind prefers to wonder upon the need for a good cup of tea! But for all my lows there are far more highs, many 'Aha!!!' moments...they are the best kind, even when struck whilst traipsing the aisles of Sainsburys. Often my overactive imagination and its timing confound me.

Malachi was born in my mind long ago but only more recently brought to life within the virtual roleplaying world. Here his character was further solidified and his interactions and unveiling path a breeding point for more substance and depth.

The Chronicles are Malachi's story as he walks the planes of Time and learns to adapt to ever differing cultures and worlds. I get a huge kick from having people beg to know what he's been up to.